Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/107

 Are all nights like as my nights? does the sun Grieve thee? art thou soul-sick till day be done, And weary till day rises? is thine heart Full of dead things as mine is? Nay, thou art Man, with man's strength and praise and pride of life, No bondwoman, no queen, no loveless wife That would be shamed albeit she had not sinned.' And swordlike was the sound of the iron wind, And as a breaking battle was the sea. 'Nay, Lord, I pray thee let him love not me, Love me not any more, nor like me die, And be no more than such a thing as I. Turn his heart from me, lest my love too lose Thee as I lose thee, and his fair soul refuse For my sake thy fair heaven, and as I fell Fall, and be mixed with my soul and with hell. Let me die rather, and only; let me be Hated of him so he be loved of thee, Lord: for I would not have him with me there Out of thy light and love in the unlit air, Out of thy sight in the unseen hell where I Go gladly, going alone, so thou on high Lift up his soul and love him—Ah, Lord, Lord, Shalt thou love as I love him? she that poured From the alabaster broken at thy feet An ointment very precious, not so sweet As that poured likewise forth before thee then From the rehallowed heart of Magdalen, From a heart broken, yearning like the dove, An ointment very precious which is love—